


Hungry Eyes

by BakerKeen



Series: Let Me Count the Ways [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A little bit of plot, Comfort, M/M, Masturbation, Past Drug Use, Porn With Plot, Prostitution, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-28
Updated: 2015-07-28
Packaged: 2018-04-11 05:10:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4422632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BakerKeen/pseuds/BakerKeen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's antics at a crime scene lead to a confession about his past which leads to John enforcing a dry spell. Sherlock takes matters into his own hands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hungry Eyes

**Author's Note:**

> Part of the Let Me Count the Ways series. It will probably be better if you read Seven Other Ways first but they can each stand alone and reading out of order won't spoil anything. 
> 
> This has more feels than I planned originally!

John slammed the door to the flat behind them and rounded immediately on Sherlock. "Do you have ANY explanation for what just happened??" 

Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. "I don't see why you're upset. They were _impressed_."

John threw his jacket at the coat rack. "That's private information, Sherlock. Nobody wants to hear about my penis size."

Sherlock crowded John, attempting to herd him against the wall as he reached for his hips. "On the contrary," he rumbles. "Anderson and Donovan both definitely wanted to hear more."

John pushed Sherlock away roughly. "For God's sake, Sherlock! When Lestrade made a comment about the size of my bollocks, he wasn't being literal. And even if he was, why would you think it was OK to go into such exact detail?" He pulled off his shoes roughly and flung them over by the door. 

Sherlock sighed, toeing off his own shoes and adopting a superior demeanor. "I rather thought I was talking you up. I don't believe there are statistics available on the average penis size of white male Londoners but in my experience you are between the 97th and 99th percentile, or approximately 2 standard deviations away from the mean."

John snorted. "What, in your _vast_ experience?" As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he wished he could recall them. They had never discussed exact numbers but Sherlock's personality being what it was, John assumed that his opportunities had been limited. Which was totally fine; John genuinely didn't care about Sherlock's sexual past. It was a sign of how angry and embarrassed he was that he was shaming Sherlock for his relative inexperience. 

Sherlock stilled, taking in John's deer-in-headlights expression and considered how much information John actually wanted. He hadn't meant to ask the question, after all. But now it hung between them and Sherlock didn't see any point in deceiving him. "It's a statistically significant sample." 

John rolled his eyes. "There must be, what, 2 or 3 million white men living in London? A statistically significant sample of that population would be at least 150 people." 

A long silence stretched between them and Sherlock held his gaze, raising his eyebrows slightly and waiting for John to catch up. 

John clenched his jaw to keep it from falling open and debated. It wasn't really any of his business, of course, and John wasn't a prude by any stretch. But Sherlock seemed to be waiting for the question and so he satisfied his curiosity. "How many people have you slept with? Sex, not actual sleep, of course." 

Sherlock considered this for a moment. "Define sex." 

John smiled at his precision. "Let's say any encounter that ends in an orgasm for one or both of you." 

Sherlock tried to look nonchalant, but John could tell he was anxious. "By that definition, 227 men and 12 women. If we're only counting penetrative sex, far fewer; 88 men and 9 women." 

John laughed incredulously. "I can't decide if I'm more staggered by the overall volume or the number of women. You've had actual, penetrative sex with _nine_ women? That's more than experimentation. I thought you identified as gay?" 

Sherlock released the breath he'd been holding, visibly relaxing, and shrugged. "They had drugs I wanted, so we made arrangements."

John's face underwent a quick series of changes; first his eyebrows arched in surprise, the sank in pity, the furrowed in worry. "Sherlock. How often did you make _arrangements_ like that?" 

Sherlock pushed past John to huff across the room, settling on the couch and crossing his arms. "That hardly concerns you." 

John joined him on the couch, touching his arm gently. "If you traded sex for drugs, I'm very concerned. How many people are we talking?" 

Sherlock's looked miserable. "It was a lot, OK? Mycroft had my accounts frozen. Can we please just leave it at that? It was a lot. The majority of my sexual encounters have been transactional." 

John threaded his fingers through Sherlock's. "I'm sorry, love. That sounds awful." 

Sherlock smiled sadly, rubbing his thumb absently over John's. "It's not a time in my life I look back on with pride." He slid his eyes over John. "Ask your question." 

Squeezing Sherlock's hand gently, John asked, "Anyone ever hurt you?" 

"Sexually?" John nodded. Sherlock tipped his head, considering. "Only when it was part of the arrangement, which was rare." He held John's gaze. "But that wasn't your question." 

John swallowed. "Did you ... Have you been tested?" 

"Not recently," Sherlock admitted. "I nearly always used condoms for penetration and never shared needles, so it it never topped my priority list."

John dropped his hand. "For fuck's sake, Sherlock! _Nearly_ always is not good enough. Hell, for a prostitute, _always_ isn't good enough. You have to get tested, Sherlock. Tomorrow. Have a care for your health." 

Sherlock's face hardened. "I am not the slightest bit concerned." 

"Then have a care for mine. I can't believe you'd put me at risk like this." 

Narrowing his eyes, Sherlock spat out his most contemptuous tone. "Oh, you know we haven't done anything _risky_ yet. You're too squeamish." 

John flinched, and Sherlock's face became stony, as though he was determined not to let some fragile emotion bubble to the surface. John decided to stay on point. "Well, no more 9.66-inch cock for you until you're cleared."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes for a moment, nodded curtly, and reached for the journal he had abandoned on the side table that morning. 

\---------- 

The chill between them lasted the rest of the evening and all the next day. John met Lestrade for lunch, and the detective inspector soon had him laughing as he described the office reaction to Sherlock's declaration the day before. "... So then someone gets out a ruler and draws it out, and _Donovan_ , of all people, starts comparing it to the size of her fists. The look on Anderson's face, my God." Lestrade wiped tears from his eyes. "So then Sally says to Anderson, 'You have a 3D printer. I'm sure Sherlock would tell you the circumference if you wanted to make a replica.' Reckon you could pull any woman in the office now. Or Anderson." 

John laughed in spite of himself. "It's a burden, honestly." 

Lestrade snorted. "Sherlock doesn't seem to mind. Although I have it on good authority that he wouldn't give up the rest of the details. Actually told someone to piss off. You two have a row about it?" 

John shook his head. "Not about that, really. I mean, yes, I read him the riot act a bit, but the row was more about other stuff." Lestrade held his gaze, waiting patiently. "Stuff from Sherock's past." 

Lestrade took a sip of coffee and winced. "Finally got to that, eh? He got picked up a few times, but Mycroft always worked his magic to get the charges dropped." He nudged John under the table with his foot. "Don't be too hard on him, eh? He was in a really bad place. Thought sure we'd find him dead in a ditch eventually." He fiddled with a sugar packet. "You know how Sherlock would do anything for a case? That's how he used to be about getting a fix. Was a bit heartbreaking, really, because we could all tell he was literally a genius. Wasting all his talent on deducing who would trade a blowjob for whatever he needed. Seen a million smackheads, and he's about the only one I've known to kick it."

John smiled at his coffee. "Yeah. One in a million." 

\---------- 

When John got home, Sherlock was playing an angsty concerto by the window. John sunk into the couch, pretending to read a book while he listened to the swell of the violin. 

After a few minutes, Sherlock turned into a particularly mournful note and stopped mid-downstroke. "I didn't hear you come in."

Laying his book down, John patted the cushion beside him. Sherlock gingerly set down his violin and circled the couch once before settling. John immediately scooted closer and brushed an errant curl back from his face. "I'm sorry I called you a prostitute." 

Sherlock shrugged. "It was not a completely inaccurate descriptor." He tried to sound flippant, as though it didn't matter, but John could see that he was ashamed. 

"Still," John conceded. "It wasn't very loving and I shouldn't have said it." 

Sherlock leaned his face into John's palm in a distinctly cat-like manner. "I regret the remark I made about you being squeamish. I respect your boundaries and our sexual encounters are the most fulfilling I've ever had. I don't know why I said it." 

John smiled fondly. "It happens during fights sometimes. It's OK." 

"I got tested today," Sherlock blurted out. "Should have the results in 7-10 days." 

John leaned in for a soft kiss, nesting Sherlock's lower lip between both of his. "Thank you." He tilted his head, not deepening the kiss but increasing the closeness of it. 

Sherlock cradled John's head, pulling him closer still. "I detest arguing with you," he murmured between kisses. "Especially when we can't properly make up for 7-10 days."

John smiled. "Want to stop with the snogging, then?" 

"No!" Sherlock protested, a bit more loudly than was strictly necessary. John chuckled and Sherlock took the opportunity to dart his tongue into his mouth. He wriggled his body closer to John, running his hands up and down his back as their tongues and lips tangled. John sat back, coaxing Sherlock onto his lap. Somehow, Sherlock managed to tuck his long legs around John and slither his body closer. He leaned his forehead against John's, stroking his face with long fingers. "I'm sorry," Sherlock half-whispered. 

John wrapped his arms around Sherlock's too-thin waist, running his hands soothingly up his back. "It's OK, love. We had a fight, but we're OK." He lifted his face to brush gentle lips against Sherlock's before running a hand up his spine to pull his head closer. John slid a soft tongue in and licked gently against Sherlock's mouth, caressing every part of it. Sherlock tilted his head slightly to change the angle, deepening the kiss, and their tongues tangled, the kiss quickly becoming frantic. John clutched Sherlock tighter, swirling his tongue against him, determined not to break away first. Finally, Sherlock pulled back for a gasp, and John pressed soft kisses to his long neck. Sherlock shifted his weight, pressing their hips closer together, and they both chuckled. John pulled back then, reluctantly, and glanced down at their burgeoning erections. "We should probably stop." 

Sherlock disentangled himself and scooted back to kneel, bum resting on John's knees. "I have a counter offer." He pulled his belt free of the loops and tossed it on the floor before opening his trousers and removing himself with a long stroke. "We haven't watched each other yet." 

John's hands were already making quick work of his trousers. "I accept your offer. This for your spreadsheet?" 

Sherlock's face quirked in confusion. "No, John. It's for us." He leaned in for a quick, dirty kiss. "And for science, of course." 

John cracked a grin. "Of course." He pulled out his cock, bringing it to full attention with a few quick strokes, then sat back to watch Sherlock. 

Long fingers moved gently, almost lazily; he seemed to be teasing himself a bit. Sherlock's eyes flicked between John's face and his hands, seeming torn between watching him pleasuring himself or his reactions to Sherlock. After a time, he dribbled saliva into his hand and spread it over himself. John's breathing picked up, and he matched their strokes. 

Sherlock noticed of course, and he leaned down for a kiss before murmuring, "Bedroom?"

John nodded and pushed Sherlock's knees back gently, accepting his hand up to standing. Both men abandoned their trousers and pants en route to Sherlock's room, shucking off their shirts once inside. Sherlock sat back against the headboard, stretching an inviting arm to John. Crawling in, John curled up against Sherlock, and nuzzled his head on the taller man's bony shoulder. John peeked up. "Better?" 

"Better." Sherlock lowered his face to the top of John's head, dropping kisses there as he nosed through his hair. John tangled their feet together and returned his hand to his cock. Sherlock reached blindly behind him to find the lube on his bedside stand and passed it over. 

John flipped the top and drizzled some over both of their cocks. Sherlock let out a mewl of surprise and reached down to keep it from dripping off of him. "Better," John murmured. "Want to watch how you like it." He pressed a kiss to Sherlock's chest and watched as he picked up the rhythm again. "God, you're gorgeous," he crooned. "Those long, graceful fingers wrapped around your pretty cock." His own cock surged and he stroked it more firmly. "Look what watching you does to me. You're perfect." 

Sherlock brushed his lips against John's ear. "Hardly." He watched John stroke himself and saw his own strokes mirrored. "Don't think anyone would notice me while _that_ was on display." 

John's gaze followed to his swollen erection and he smiled sadly. "Well, most people are idiots. Yours is big in a way that scratches all the right itches. Mine is more fun to look at than to actually use, most of the time." 

Sherlock licked his lips, then nibbled John's ear. "All the same, can't wait to get it inside me. Is that what you think about, when you touch yourself? Sliding home until you bottom out?" 

John closed his eyes, holding his fist still and thrusting into it with a moan. "I think about you." Sherlock craned his head to watch, fist moving faster on his own cock to sync their rhythm again. John opened his eyes again and lifted his head for a furious kiss, humming his happiness against Sherlock's lips. He ran a thumb over his cockhead and broke away from the kiss with a pant as a familiar heat spread through his belly. He thrusted into his fist a few more times as Sherlock murmured encouragement, and exploded spectacularly with a guttural cry. 

When John could pick his head up off Sherlock's chest again to watch, he was stroking himself furiously, seeming unable to push himself over the edge. John winced in sympathy as Sherlock's strokes grew more and more violent. 

"Easy, gorgeous," John said, wrapping his hand around Sherlock's and slowing it down considerably. "This is how you like it." John twisted their hands to swirl a delicious friction over Sherlock, going barely over the ridge of his cockhead before twisting back down to the base. Sherlock's breath caught in his throat, and John released him. "Do it just like that. Perfect. God, you are absolutely perfect." He could feel Sherlock relaxing beneath him. "That's it. Just look at that beautiful cock. All mine now." Sherlock's breathing picked up and he shot a pleading look at him. "A little faster. Squeeze a little tighter. Yesss, like that." John kissed Sherlock's shoulder. "Let it go, love. I want to watch you." Three more squeezing strokes and he was shuddering and gasping as he splashed across their chests. 

John wiped them off with a T-shirt that was hanging on the edge of the bed, pretending not to notice the wetness in Sherlock's eyes. He rested his face on Sherlock's chest, patiently rubbing lazy circles into the sparse hair there. After a few minutes, Sherlock returned the caresses with light touches to his arm. John raised his face for a kiss. Dry eyes. "Better," John said, snuggling back against his chest. 

Sherlock stretched contentedly. "Better," he agreed.


End file.
